PREDICTION

If there's a way to understand
if effort means a thing to success
if desire can predict
if love can move that which
is inanimate I'll find a way
to let this clot of tears throated
here dissolve and wash down clean
into an eddy to be churned and churned
to be made whole to find a place
where all of it rises up together
in a motion I'd hold you and press
a hand against your heart
to feel you as I feel my own pulse
solid as a stone If old voices can
be stilled if knots can be untied
if sunsets if creeksongs.

© Joan Barton, 1998

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